18.06.2007, 10:29
The Death of Love
Love doth not stir my heart; sweet love is dead,
Its cheek is pale, its lovely eyelids closed;
No, not a quiver shakes the lowly bed
Where the dear ashen image lies reposed.
I can go nigh and lift the mournful veil,
I can look down and touch the chiselled lips,--
Remember that they were not always pale,
But red--ah, rosy-red--with smiles and quips.
I can do this, then pass with but a tear,
That tear soon taught to decorate a smile,
Mayhap adorn a verse to please an ear
That love's sweet music yet will help beguile.
Ah God! so dead to Love, and yet not dead!
Would I were with her on her lowly bed!
Love doth not stir my heart; sweet love is dead,
Its cheek is pale, its lovely eyelids closed;
No, not a quiver shakes the lowly bed
Where the dear ashen image lies reposed.
I can go nigh and lift the mournful veil,
I can look down and touch the chiselled lips,--
Remember that they were not always pale,
But red--ah, rosy-red--with smiles and quips.
I can do this, then pass with but a tear,
That tear soon taught to decorate a smile,
Mayhap adorn a verse to please an ear
That love's sweet music yet will help beguile.
Ah God! so dead to Love, and yet not dead!
Would I were with her on her lowly bed!